


Darkest Before The Dawn

by mauvaise_foi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Hogwarts 6th Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, TAGGED FOR LATER CHAPTERS, Temporary Character Death, UST, Wand Play, Wandless Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 06:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12150510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mauvaise_foi/pseuds/mauvaise_foi
Summary: Draco was no stranger to pain - from the moment the Dark Mark was seared onto his arm, he had known almost nothing but pain. Then Harry Potter sliced him open in more ways than one, and a tentative connection begins to form between two boys caught on opposite sides of the war.A story of redemption, second chances, and major Voldemort ass-kicking.Timeframe: HBP to post-DH (EWE)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story arose from a vital need to see Draco's perspective as Harry's death was announced at the Battle of Hogwarts. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to have begun at the 6th book (this is going to be a monster), but Draco's change of heart is really important to me, so I had to start from where it mattered.
> 
>  
> 
> Cheers to my first fic (ever). 
> 
> I hope there will be many more.

_ For what its worth, I’m sorry _

_ And at the end I swear I’m trying _

 

* * *

As night descended around the Manor, Draco followed his mother from his room down the echoing hallways. Two days before, he’d hopped off the Hogwarts Express at the end of June, tight-lipped, met by the Manor’s house-elves instead of his parents.

Details of what exactly had transpired at the Ministry a few weeks prior were sketchy, and Draco knew little more than any other person with a subscription to The Prophet. His father was already incarcerated in Azkaban, and the whispers in the Slytherin common room had not ceased since the news broke. His mother had owled him on the last day of school, her words cryptic but the message unmistakable - the Dark Lord had moved into the Manor. 

Draco’s footsteps were as silent as Narcissa’s were loud. His mother strode swiftly, as if they weren’t about to meet the most powerful wizard in the world, Dumbledore be damned. Ugh, what was it about Malfoys and appearances? Draco could hardly bring one dragonhide boot in front of the other onto the marble floor without quaking. 

Truth be told, he was excited to finally see the Dark Lord. Even sodding Potter had met the Dark Lord in his dreams and had faced him off more than once. But all Draco had were stories. He was ready to be in on the action, ready to show Potter and his crew that he, Draco Malfoy, was not to be trifled with, thank you very much.

The very air seemed to vibrate with something unspoken, the Malfoy portraits watching him with inscrutable looks on their faces as he passed. They didn’t seem to be speaking, but they didn’t look proud either - was that curled lip a sign of…disdain? Draco looked at them accusingly. The portraits have always been vocal in their support of Draco’s choices. They praised him when he taunted the mudblood and mocked Potter's lack of parentage. Now they were strangely subdued, and no encouragement was forthcoming as he walked to meet the man who would secure the birthrights of purebloods for good. Pssh, Draco thought, they’re just jealous they aren’t alive at the same time as the Dark Lord.

Collecting his thoughts, he stepped across the drawing room threshold behind his mother’s swirling robes.

Immediately, Draco stopped short.

There was something in here, something so strong and foul in the magic that it felt like an oily residue gripped the walls around him. Draco almost forgot how to breathe. It prickled under his skin, an unwanted presence sneaking its tendrils to his core. He looked around at the dozen or so gathered, solemn but for his mad aunt who hovered restlessly like a housefly. Unbidden, he grasped his hawthorn wand to anchor himself.

“Ah-ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Draco.”

Draco froze. He turned his head slowly to see a skeletal frame draped in blue robes on the other end of the room. His face was still hidden, facing the fireplace.

“M-My Lord?”

“You wish to draw your wand on me?” 

The voice was raspy, reedy. It sounded more like the faceless monster that breathed on him in his nightmares than the man he’d been waiting to worship. He bowed quickly.

“No! No. My Lord. I would not dare,” Draco replied, willing the tremors out of his voice. 

A tuneless hum was the only response he received. Seconds later, he felt his chin grabbed by a hand that was cold cold cold and his face was wrenched upwards.

It took everything Draco had not to retch at the snake-like red eyes, at the slits that took the place of a nose, and the cruel, lip-less mouth.  _This_ was the Dark Lord? His eyes darted left and right disbelievingly. He caught sight of his mother looking on steadily, silent and tight-lipped, her features carefully blank.  

Voldemort turned Draco’s face from side to side, reptilian eyes boring into his skin, a gnarly finger slowly caressing his left cheek. Draco shivered, once, twice, against his will. The creature - whatever it was - broke into a nasty smile that matched the revolting feeling of magic in the room. 

“Such a young one. Still untouched. We’ll have use for you yet.” 

Abruptly, Voldemort dropped his hand and turned, snapping twice. The Carrows stepped forward - Alecto forcing Draco to his knees, and Amycus holding his left arm out in a death grip.

“Wai-What! Unhand me at once, you filth,” Draco spat. “I will not be manhandled in my own house.”

A high-pitched laugh slashed through the air. 

“Your house? My, my. The little Malfoy still thinks he’s worth something,” Voldemort taunted. A ripple of uneasy laughter from their audience answered him. 

Draco found his nervousness giving way to indignation. What was this crackpot going on about?

“The Malfoys are a disgrace. Did you think you can put on airs after how your father has disappointed me?”

A darkness that wasn’t there before began to penetrate the room, curling like poisonous fumes down from the chandelier above. 

“Young Draco. You will pay the price for the embarrassment Lucius has brought to me and my cause. I have a task, yes…of the utmost importance. Do it well, and the Malfoy name will be restored.”

“But first…” Voldemort pointed his wand at Draco’s outstretched arm.

Pain, pain like Draco has never known engulfed his senses, and it was all he could do not to cry out in agony. White hot tears flowed down his cheeks as Draco bit down hard on his lower lip, a coppery tang flooding his mouth. 

He watched through a haze of tears as the Dark Lord moved his mouth in a soundless incantation; unable to hear anything over the blood roaring past his ears. 

In this very moment, Draco knew, he was going to die.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Draco opened his eyes again, he was surprised to realise he could do so.  

_ Huh, I’m not dead. _

He must have blacked out for a moment, because he was now on his elbows and knees, panting, no longer held up by the Carrows. Keeping his head down, Draco counted the seconds and willed his lungs to work normally. There was that laugh again, piercing through his haze of residual pain. Dully, he registered that the creature was laughing at him together with Aunt Bella, but he could not bring himself to react.

“Little Malfoy can’t handle a little pain,” Voldemort taunted. “ _Just like his father_.”

Draco lifted his head a fraction then, but before he could reply, he caught sight of swirling black on pale skin. 

_ Death Eater. _

***

He’d only seen the Dark Mark once before, when Lucius took him flying across the Manor grounds in the summer after Second Year. It was one of the only times Draco truly enjoyed the company of his father, when he didn't feel like he was perpetually craning a metaphorical neck to look up to the great Lucius Malfoy.

Draco had flown close to the ground, chasing their idiotic white peacocks around the garden and half-frightening them to death. His father had thrown his head back and laughed, a full-bellied sound so foreign that Draco stopped to look back incredulously. A rare sight greeted him then - Lucius Malfoy, on his broom in the midday sun, long blonde hair flying behind him and his famous charming smile on full display. Twelve-year-old Draco had burned the image into his eyes, never wanting to forget his father being so very handsome and happy like this.

Later, when they were idly circling the grounds, Lucius pointed out the different orchards, stables, and monuments across the vast expanse of land.

“One day, Draco, all of this would be yours. Our ancestors came from France with nothing but their ambition and made Wiltshire our own. The Manor, these lands, the prestige, the respect. Ten centuries in the making."

He’d gestured to the land with his left arm just then, his sleeve falling back. And Draco, who'd been preparing for another lofty lecture, gaped wide-eyed at the stigma which marred his father’s forearm. He knew, from Pansy and Blaise's whispered stories, that his parents were loyal to a powerful Dark Lord, who championed the rights of purebloods. As Draco looked at the skull and snake against the backdrop of the Manor, he wondered if the Dark Mark would one day be his to inherit too. 

Noticing his expression, Lucius slowly tugged his sleeve down. He sighed shortly, and with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he turned to Draco.

"Our name is a powerful one, Draco - the Malfoys bow to no one. Never forget that.”

_ Did you know this was going to happen, Father? _

***

He was jolted back to the present by the Dark Lord -  _Voldemort,_ Draco corrected himself.  _I sure as hell won’t call this reptilian piece of pickled flesh my Lord_  - who was sauntering over to him again with another smile that showed all of his rotten teeth. 

“As much as we enjoyed that little show,” he chuckled, “I do need to tell you your task, little Malfoy. Oh, and please try not to faint again this time.”

Voldemort bent down, and Draco could feel the his icy lips brush past his ear before the words, like parseltongue, were whispered to him.

“Your task, dear boy, is to kill the pest, Albus Dumbledore.” 

“You have nine months. If you fail, the Malfoys shall cease to exist.”

 ***

 

Mother sat across from Draco in his room, both of them quiet. It’s been like this for the last half an hour since they were dismissed from the drawing room. A thousand thoughts passed his mind, none of them within reach. He was past asking the  _how, why,_ and _what the fucks_. He tried to look for courage, for rationality, for that famed Slytherin cunning within himself, but he found nothing; nothing, except a numbness and jarring incomprehension about what just transpired.

A death threat to his family; the outcome of four lives including his own, all resting on his shoulders. Draco found he had no words worth saying, so he continued staring, unseeing, at his hands on his lap. 

“I’ll do it instead,” Mother finally spoke. Her voice was wobbly, but it sounded like she'd made up her mind.

“No.” He could at least protect her for Father. _Until you fail_ , his subconscious reminded him.

Then, helplessness gave way to rage, at the impossibility of him coming out of this alive. He hated losing control, hated it even more that the control was wrenched out of his grasp by a monster he’d only just met. He hated seeing his mother like this, looking like she might be on the brink of tears. Narcissa Malfoy never lost her cool - ever. It was then that Draco realised he had never seen his mother cry. Suddenly, it was more than he could bear. 

“Mother,” he choked on the first syllable. 

He swallowed, and tried again. “I can do this. So please, mother, please don’t cry.”

Narcissa looked up, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Then, in her next breath, her jaw was set, and that famed icy determination filled her entire countenance once more. Lifting her right hand, she cradled his cheek lightly.

“Draco, you know I’ll never forgive you if you die.” 

Draco couldn’t help but to smile in spite of it all. 

“Then, Mother, I’ll live. I promise.” 

_ I’ll try. _

***

Two weeks after his initiation, Draco was asked - if being grabbed around the neck by Fenrir Greyback could be called that - to join in a Death Eater ‘excursion’. By this time, he’d come to terms with the realisation that Voldemort’s choice to stay in the Malfoy home was not an honour, but a punishment. He was all but confined to his room and the library, as was Mother. The only difference between here and Azkaban was that, well, Father was in Azkaban.  Here, Draco watched helplessly as the home he cherished changed before his eyes. Where Lucius Malfoy sat, Voldemort did now. All manner of ancient artefacts - centuries-old Malfoy treasures - have been whisked away to Snape’s lab for ‘experiments’ ordered by old snake-head. The Manor had always been imposing and gloomy, but now it felt defiled, and tainted, somehow.

“You need to be trained, Draco,” Aunt Bella told him matter-of-factly, as he struggled in Greyback’s grip while being marched down the front steps into the chilly evening air.  “Cissy and Lucius have never gotten down and dirty, but it’s time you Malfoys helped out in field work. The Dark Lord wishes it.” 

So it was, that night at dusk, that Draco crouched, shivering in his hiding place beside a prickly bush, wondering how the fuck his life has come to this. He sheathed his wand to wipe his traitorously sweaty palms dry for the third time. He could almost feel Pansy giving him her trademark side-eye right then,  _how very plebeian of you, Draco._ He blinked back sudden tears in his eyes and the sharp sting in his nose. He missed his friends with a bone-deep ache, though the summer had just begun. He missed the solid presence of Vince and Greg agreeing to everything he said, even if they were just incoherent grunts. He missed Pansy’s snark and Blaise’s dark, handsome face. 

He missed feeling safe. 

Over the last two weeks, he’d spent his time scouring the Manor’s library, trying and failing to find any spell or curse that could help him overcome the sheer difference in magical strength and skill between him and the fucking Headmaster of Hogwarts. Thankfully, Voldemort seemed content to let him be and had stopped summoning him for the time being, though he sometimes looked at Draco over dinner with a strange glint in his red eyes. Draco, on the other hand, was still actively learning to keep his food down while sharing a table with that monstrosity of a face.

Cursing the thorns from the bush digging into his arms, Draco thought about his plan for the night. The mission was simple; he, Aunt Bella, and Greyback were to meet with Snape and Uncle Rodolphus in a quiet village just east of Hogsmeade to frighten some unsuspecting Muggles. Standard stuff in a Death Eater’s calendar.

Draco could do that. Taunting Muggles and Mudbloods like Granger was almost second-nature to him, though he didn’t necessarily like doing it. It’s just what his father does all the time - making the Ministry grovel, reminding people of the Malfoy status, that sort of stuff. He remembered the chaos at the World Cup two years ago. Levitating some random fools in the air sounded easy enough to get through. After this, he’d treat himself to a hot chocolate. In bed. He’ll give the library a miss tonight. 

As he wiped his palms a fourth time, a low whistle sounded. It was time. 

They crossed the garden swiftly under the cover of darkness and entered the cottage, where Snape was finishing up an Incarcerous around two children who hardly came up to Draco’s waist. The little boy’s hair was black and wild, his eyes wide and very, very blue. Unbidden, Draco was reminded of Potter. Fuck.  In the dim light from the streetlamps, Draco saw the rest of the family was also bound and gagged by conjured ropes. Two young parents on the ground, an older woman laid flat over the top of the dining table. Terrified wet eyes bored into Draco from all sides, the fear in them almost palpable.

Snape turned when he heard them enter, starting when he saw Draco there.

“What’s he doing here?” He snarled at Bellatrix, who was idly exploring the house and sending blasting curses at various unfortunate objects.

“Training,” she answered. “You saw how he blacked out just from receiving the Mark. Too delicate.” 

“He’s barely sixteen,” Snape gritted through his teeth.  

Draco frowned. Sixteen was a perfectly good age to be bullying Muggles. Why was Snape getting his knickers in a twist? He tried to search his godfather’s face for a sign, but the Potion Master’s face was inscrutable. He seemed to be fighting a strong urge to hex Aunt Bella, however. 

“Well," Fenrir yawned. "We don’t have all night. You two can keep arguing, I’m going to get started.”  

With a stretch, he pounced onto the dining table, goring his teeth into the old woman’s neck in one swift motion. From where Draco stood, he heard the most horrifying crack before he saw the spray of blood hit the wall.  Muffled screams tore from the rest of the family, a terrible chorus of horror and grief. Draco tried to breathe, but in the next second the metallic smell of fresh blood reached him, and he choked on his own breath. 

Gasping, he stumbled towards the door, desperate to get out. He was yanked back by Aunt Bella, who held the sides of his face and forced his eyes open as the werewolf tore out chunk after chunk of the old woman’s flesh. Draco could see the whites of her collarbone, could see her skull peeking through the right side of her face. 

He began to shake uncontrollably. “Please….please Aunt Bella, let me go,” he whispered. “I-I can’t watch, please…jus-” 

“None of that,” she replied. “You want to get stronger, don’t you? What would the Dark Lord think if you fainted in front of him again, hm?”

Her tone was taunting, Draco knew, but her hands were also the only thing keeping him standing at this moment. Frankly, he couldn’t give two shits if he fainted in front of Voldemort again as long as he could be allowed to leave, _right now_. He gulped past the bitter lump in his throat as Fenrir finally ended his attack on the woman, who now looked more like a pile of meat with clothes rather than a former human being. Fenrir wiped this mouth with the back of his hand and hopped off the table. 

“I don’t understand why I always get the old ones. They’re not chewy enough,” he complained.

“Tender flesh is too good to be wasted on your beastly ways, Greyback,” Bellatrix snorted. “Besides, I love children.”

_The fuck?_ Draco thought. _Aunt Bella loving children was as impossible as Voldemort having a nose._

Rodolphus clicked his tongue. “All right, all right. I’ll save the children for you. Draco, this is what we brought you here for, so watch and learn.”

Red painted Draco’s vision once more as Rodolphus hit the children’s parents with an unknown curse, one after the other, that split them in half from the waist down. Pained gurgles were the last sounds they made as their insides fell to the floor in a wet, slopping mess. 

The children forgot to cry in their shock.  Draco promptly vomited. 

“Let him go,” Snape snapped at Bellatrix, his pinched eyebrows the only sign of emotion. He sighed, a deep, exasperated sound. “We can finish this without him.”

“Oh, do shut it, Severus. This is a golden opportunity. I’m going to teach him myself." Hopping over the puddle of Draco's upended dinner, she walked towards the children.

"Come, Draco dear.”

Too weak and shaken to refuse, the taste of bile still on his lips, Draco wobbled to where his aunt stood. 

“ _Crucio._ ”

The children screamed through their gags, thrashing in their bound state, their fingers gripping air in a terrible seizure. Draco wanted to shut out his senses -  _too much, too much -_  but as he watched the boy’s beautiful eyes roll back into his head from pain, he found the strength to grab his aunt’s arm. 

“Stop it!” He yelled through trembling lips. “How could you use an unforgivable on  _children_?”

“Oh Draco,” she grinned at him, not releasing her spell. “You’re about to do the same yourself.”

Draco stared into her mad gleaming eyes, uncomprehending.

“Being crucioed to death is one of the worst ways to die, darling nephew,” she pouted, putting on a mockery of puppy eyes.

"Don’t you want to spare them that horrible, horrible fate?” 

_ No. No way. _

“You’re a smart boy. Do what you think is best.”

Time seemed to slow down. Draco closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his own heartbeat. He took one breath, then two, inhaling the smell of blood, vomit, fear, and death. 

He bid goodbye to the life he knew and the boy he used to be. 

He looked into the boy’s eyes, still so very blue, and silently prayed for his forgiveness. 

_ “Avada kedavra.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was difficult to get through. I hope the focus on the Malfoy name wasn't too much, but I had my reasons for it:
> 
> 3 years before I began reading the HP books, I got the words 'mauvaise foi' (literally, bad faith) tattooed on my ribs, inspired by Jean-Paul Sartre's work on existentialism and authenticity. 
> 
> When I finally read the series at age 22, I immediately saw myself in Draco, who was caught in an echo chamber of toxic ideas with no one to show him a different way to live. (For me, that was analogous to Catholicism forced down my throat since birth by parents who taught me to be hateful towards Muslims, LGBT folks, and more.)
> 
> Months later, I realised that 'mauvaise foi' was also the origin of the Malfoy name, which originated from old French (https://www.pottermore.com/writing-by-jk-rowling/the-malfoy-family). I’d unknowingly marked myself as a Malfoy before I identified as one. Thought that was pretty cool ^^


	3. Chapter 3

August 3rd, 1996

 

Harry Potter was a man of many things. He was an unfortunate heir of an unsalvageable mop of hair, for example. He was a friend of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. Today, he was a man on a mission. 

The mad rush for school supplies every August in Diagon Alley was secretly one of Harry's favourite activities in the year. It reminded him of new beginnings, and of Hagrid, so loud and warm. It also brings the promise of possible excitement - if Draco Malfoy were to be there. It’s astounding, really, that the summer break lasts for months, but the Weasleys and the Malfoys somehow manage to choose to do their shopping on the same day, year after year. By extension, Harry was also inevitably doomed to see the snotty git even before the school year began.

After the events in May, it felt as if the entire Wizarding world had become a string strung tight on a bow, with tension so thick it laced through every interaction. Their simple journey this morning to the heart of Wizarding London was delayed because Mrs. Weasley’s clock had all of their names pointing to ‘mortal peril’, and they could not leave the Burrow until Arthur came to whisk them off in a specially designed car from the Ministry of Magic. And even here, in Diagon Alley, in a place where Harry always felt safe, there were stark reminders that their world was changing day by day. Shoppers stayed together in tightly knit groups, and nobody was stopping for idle chit-chat anymore. Fortescue’s ice cream shop was shuttered, chairs strewn haphazardly over its alfresco area. Ollivander’s was closed as well - has been for a while, according to Bill. 

Harry tried to ignore the tight feeling in his chest at the realisation that this was the second last time he would ever be part of this jostling crowd getting ready for the new school year. He has bigger things on his mind, after all. If Harry were to be perfectly honest with himself, he’d stopped feeling like a normal student for a long time now. At sixteen years of age, he’d faced off with Voldemort thrice (four times, if you count the time he was a wee baby), fought a basilisk, almost got Kissed, broken into the Ministry of Magic, witnessed the deaths of Cedric and Siri-

Harry stopped short in the middle of the street, making Ron crash violently into him from behind.

“Mate, you can’t just stop in the middle of Diagon Alley! People may actually _die_ from the resulting human jam, you know.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hey. Hey Harry, are you okay?” Hermione cut in, her hand wrapping around his arm. Harry cracked open one eye to see her brown eyes wide with concern.

“Ye-yeah, Hermione. I’m good. Thanks.”

With a frown she let go, pulling Ron down to whisper furiously in his ear, the words ‘insensitive brute’ loud enough to reach his ears. Harry sighed. He was grateful for her concern, but he’d come to realise that trying to convince people he’s _fine_  is almost as hard as dealing with Sirius’ death itself. Grief, like a gaping wound, is impossible to ignore even when it’s healing. But that was not the only reason why he stopped in the street. It was also a momentary flash of pale blond hair, gleaming in the distance before disappearing again. 

So Draco Malfoy was here after all. If Harry got a little more excited at that thought, it was only because he could always count on Malfoy to make his heart beat faster - in anger, in viciousness, or in loathing. As much as he hated to admit it, Malfoy made him feel alive, and sometimes in the midst of their petty rivalry, Harry could forget that he carried the weight of the Wizarding world on his shoulders and pretend he was just a teenager with a schoolyard nemesis. 

_How very ordinary,_ he thought wistfully. _And how very wonderful._

“I think we’d better do Madam Malkin’s first,” said Mrs. Weasley, nervously consulting a long list. “Hermione wants new dress robes, Ron’s showing too much ankle in his school robes, and you must need new ones too, Harry, you’ve grown so much - come on, everyone-”

“Molly, it doesn’t make sense for all of us to go traipsing inside Madam Malkin’s,” said Mr. Weasley. “She’d throw us all out in an instant. Why don’t you three-” he waved vaguely in Harry’s direction, “go with Hagrid, and the rest of us can get the schoolbooks first?”

So the trio made their way to the seamstress with Hagrid, who decided to stand guard outside when he eyed the narrow doorway that he would certainly have trouble getting past, even sideways.

The shop was a welcome respite of cool air and quiet, compared to the cacophony and blistering heat outside. Standing in front of the ancient counter and surrounded by miles of fabric, an unmistakeable, snobbish voice drifted towards them from the back of the shop. 

“I'm not a child, in case you haven’t noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone.”

 

***

 

Draco’s mind was in overdrive. At two o’clock in the morning, by the dim light of a single candle in the Manor library, he’d finally made a breakthrough in his research. 

_ Vanishing Cabinets. _

Of course. Graham Montague’s frightened, delirious blabbering after Draco found him in April suddenly made a lot more sense. He hadn't given it much thought since the guy was partially splinched and obviously not in his right mind, but his description of 'being in two places at once' had remained with Draco. The short manual was written - for future Death Eaters, it seemed - shortly after the First Wizarding War. Draco would have missed it had he not found it sandwiched as a bookmark in Grandpa Abraxas’ self-glorifying autobiography, which Draco was reading out of sheer desperation. The manual provided a surface description of the appearance of Vanishing Cabinets as well as their usage. 

_ "A pair of Vanishing Cabinets are able to connect two separate physical spaces, and reached the peak of their popularity in the year 1980. In the event of a Death Eater attack, one could simply disappear into the other cabinet until they thought it safe. Those with the Mark learnt to identify such cabinets and followed targets inside, easily hunting them down afterwards. When news of this emerged, additional wards began to be infused into the woodwork to only allow entrance to selected people. A common, convenient method was a self-destruction charm that destroys the passage mid-way when unauthorised persons entered the cabinets. Some of our members unfortunately fell victim to this charm, leaving behind lower halves of their bodies, with the upper halves unretrievable.” _

Montague told anyone who would listen that he could hear the voice of Borgin making his slimy exchanges, as well as students chattering in Hogwarts as they passed by. If he was to be believed, then…

Right now, standing stiffly with arms outstretched on a fitting stool at Madam Malkin’s, his brain was starting to hurt from the lack of sleep and the number of possibilities running through his head. Mother has been babying him more than usual, and he gets it, he really does, but he planned to keep the proceedings of his mission entirely hidden from her. That way, he, and him alone, would be responsible if he failed. Hopefully the Dark Lord’s wrath wouldn’t extend to her then. Maybe Mother could try for another son if he didn’t survive, maybe the Malfoy line could still contin-

“Ow! Watch where you’re sticking that pin, will you!” Draco yelled at Madam Malkin with more anger than he meant. His head was hurting enough as it is without a literal pin in his side.

He caught sight of Mother, chin lifted and glaring at him with slightly disappointed eyes. He sighed. 

“Sorry, Madam Malkin,” he muttered. “I’m just…a little frustrated today. Would you mind if I stepped out for a bit? I’d like to see how this colour looks in natural light.”

“Of course my dear, here, watch your step now.”

Draco hopped lightly off the stool and strode through the curtains. The dark green velvet  _was_ highly agreeable to him. Though at this point he wasn’t sure if he’d actually get a chance to wear it. Maybe in his coffin? He ran his fingers slowly across the rich, embossed material on his sleeve; it was a few moments before he caught sight of wild shaggy hair in the mirror behind him.

Bright green flashed across his mind’s eye just then, and Draco had to steady himself with a hand on the mirror. It’s been almost two months since that fateful day, but the memories were always simmering just under the surface in Draco’s consciousness. The way the young boy’s eyes froze suddenly in death, the way his whimpers gave way to silence, and the way his head of messy black hair hit the floor softly. Draco had refused to eat for days afterward, curled up in bed, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t a monster that deserved to die for what he did. 

He blinked rapidly at the green eyes looking back into his light gray ones in the mirror. _It’s not a ghost, idiot,_ he chided himself. _It’s just Potter._ Snapping his back straight, he composed himself as he turned around. 

Ah, The Golden Trio, he thought, with no small measure of disgust. They’d always been regarded as the epitome of  _good_ in Hogwarts, but right now, in this small room, Draco felt like his sins were being amplified ten-fold. His lip curling, he stuck his nose in the air and sniffed, once.

“If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,” he said imperiously. Nothing like some good old Malfoy manners to greet his exclusive enemies.

Potter and Weasley had their wands out in an instant, pointed directly at his face. Draco fought the urge to laugh. It was comical, really, how straightforward their minds were. How minuscule, the things they chose to concern themselves with.  

“I don’t think there’s any need for language like that!” said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the curtain with Mother close behind. 

“And I don’t want wands drawn in my shop either!” she shrieked when she saw the two boys staring Draco down.

Hermione grabbed Ron’s wand arm and said in a low voice, “No, don’t, honestly, it’s not worth it…”

“Yeah, like you’d dare do magic out of school,” Draco chimed in almost cheerfully. This is the most fun he’d had in a while. This was _normal_. “Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers.”

“That’s quite enough!” Madam Malkin interjected.

“Put those away,” Mother’s calm, cold voice cut through the childish situation in the room. “If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.”

“Really?” said Harry, and Draco couldn’t help but to agree with him silently for once. _Really, Mother?_ Even that was a bit too melodramatic for his taste. Of course, Potter, being the idiot he was, had to spoil it.

“Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?”

_Ooh, low blow._ Mother smiled at Potter unpleasantly. Perhaps she isn’t taking this as lightly as Draco thought she was.

“I see that being Dumbledore’s favourite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won’t always be there to protect you.” 

“Wow!" Potter made an exaggerated gesture around the shop. "Look at that, he’s not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!”

And with that, Draco finally felt a spark of anger - real anger, for the first time in months. It felt foreign in his bones, like something he’d learn to live without had been returned to him. It made him irrational too; his clenched fist was halfway en route to Potter’s jaw before he managed to stop himself.

“Don’t you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter,” he hissed, practically spitting out the last word. He might not be able to protect Mother from Voldemort, but he could at least shield her from hurtful words like these.

“It’s all right, Draco,” she cut in with a hand resting on his shoulder. “I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius.”

Potter’s nostrils flared, his wand momentarily trembling. 

“Harry, no! You mustn’t. You’ll be in so much trouble…” Hermione pleaded with him. Potter was lucky that he had Granger as a friend. Mudblood or no, Draco had to admit she had sense. That was more than he could claim for Potter - who was holistically mediocre, as well as the woodblock she called her boyfriend. 

“Well,” Draco cut in, pulling the green robes over his head and throwing them at Madam Malkin’s feet. “I don’t think I want these anymore.”

Shame though, he really did like that fabric. 

“You’re right, Draco,” Mother chimed in, “now I know the kind of scum that shops here. We’ll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting’s.” 

And with that, she took his arm and pulled him out of the shop. Draco took care to bang into the Weasel as hard as he could on the way out. That was childish, he’d admit. But worth it. 

Outside, the two of them strode stoically past Hagrid, who gave them a stiff nod, before darting into a side alley. They looked at each other for a moment before bursting into quiet laughter. 

“Mother, was that really necessary?” Draco asked while wiping tears from his eyes. “They’ll hate me even more after this, you know.”

“Oh, I was actually angry for a moment there,” Mother replied. “your father may be a criminal, but I would not stand for him to be mocked this way.”

“Likewise, I only lost my cool at that. Potter has a truly irritating mouth, doesn’t he?” Draco paused. “Are we actually going to Twilfitt’s though?”

“No, I think we should leave the bulk of our shopping to another day. I’m in need of some strong tea after all of that.” Mother smiled affectionately.

Draco grinned back. If there was one good thing about Voldemort moving into the Manor, it’s that Draco had grown closer to his mother in a way that he could not before. With Father gone, they were two drowning sailors holding on to the same piece of driftwood, not knowing if land would ever appear on the horizon. Narcissa Malfoy, the ice queen herself, has begun to thaw - at least in her son’s presence. They laugh whenever they can, because they don’t know when would be the next time they could do it again. Draco also quite liked the way her eyes exuded more warmth and crinkled at the corners when she spoke to him now. 

However, with tea on the itinerary now, his original headache of how to shake off Mother to get to Borgin and Burkes was back. She wanted to try the new continental Cafe Savoy just down the street of the Weasleys’ new joke store, and Draco couldn’t begrudge her decision. The place was small, but tastefully decorated with muted shades of green, gold and brown, and tons of natural light. Nothing like the vapid pink-on-pink nonsense of Madam Puddifoot’s. Draco ordered a lavender lemonade to cool off in the summer heat and clear his head. He nodded in all the right places while she talked idly to him about the new school year. 

“You achieved an ‘O’ for your Potions O.W.L.s, of course,” she began. “But if you have any trouble at all, Draco, I’d like you to speak to Professor Snape.”

“Of course, Mother. That goes without saying,” he replied.

In his mind he was rehearsing how best to speak to Borgin. The man may not pose much of a physical threat, but he was a shady character who'd stoop extremely low to maximise his own gain. The worst kind of Slytherin, to be honest.

“I’m being serious. Any problems at all. He will help you in any way he can,” she said. “He has promised me that.”

Draco looked into her eyes, suddenly grasping the double meaning to her words. He nodded once, tightly.

“Draco, are you quite all right? You seem a little distracted,” she looked at him searchingly.

“Ah, Mother, I-uh, think these scones don’t sit so well with the lemonade,” Draco replied quickly. Mother was always too intuitive when it came to his lies. "My stomach is not feeling too agreeable right now.”

“Oh, dear,” Mother frowned. “I must have a word with the owner. Perhaps the ingredients are not the freshest?”

“No, no, please don’t concern yourself. I’ll just pop into the lavatory for a bit,” he said, rising. “I’ll be right back.”

As Mother nodded and turned to a server to ask for a copy of The Prophet, Draco slipped out surreptitiously through the back door. He had just under fifteen minutes before Mother gets worried and starts to look for him. He pushed impatiently past the crowd that was flocking to the Wizarding Wheezes like flies to a flame. In a darkening world, he was grudgingly grateful that the twins remained an unchanging source of fun and bad humour, even if he couldn’t be a part of it. He just hoped Potter and his sidekicks were nowhere nearby, because even he was aware that he currently looked highly suspicious striding down the street without an adult to accompany him. And Potter was the most paranoid person alive this side of the world - at least where Draco was concerned. 

He glanced around. No one seemed to notice him. _Okay, Draco, you can do this._  Sliding into Knockturn Alley, he began walking purposefully towards Borgin and Burkes, just like the way his father used to do. Not that anyone was around to see - Knockturn was entirely deserted. Since Voldemort’s return and the failed attack on the Ministry, the side street devoted to the Dark Arts had been flooded with Aurors who were given the green light to raid any store that displayed the slightest bit of suspicious activity. None of the shops had any customers, and that suited Draco just fine. He swept into the shop in a manner he hoped was reminiscent of Snape, and spoke directly to the man fiddling with what looked like skull fragments on the counter.

“I’ll keep this short, Borgin.” He announced, startling the man to drop his magnifying glass. When he saw Draco, his eyes lighted up at the prospect of profit, just like they always did when they saw his father. It irked him no end.

“Young master Draco! What can I-“ 

“No need for formalities. I have need for this Vanishing Cabinet right here,” Draco said, gesturing to the large black cabinet in the center of the shop, “as well as its other half.”

“Oh, dear me, I have no idea where the other would be,” Borgin replied in his usual cloying tone, though he looked none too pleased to be interrupted. “You see, these cabinets are so rare, it is incredibly difficult to even obtain just the one-“

“Spare me your tales, Borgin, I know where it is,” Draco had only a minute or two left to finish this conversation. "However, it has been damaged somewhat, and the passageway does not seem to be functioning fully. Do you know how to fix it?”

“Possibly,” said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he was unwilling to commit himself. “I’ll need to see it, though. Why don’t you bring it to the shop?”

“I can’t,” said Draco. “It’s got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it.”

Borgin licked his lips nervously.

“Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn’t guarantee anything.”

Draco was already getting sick of his hedging words. And his time here was just about up.

“No?” he replied, sneering. “Perhaps this will make you more confident.”

Taking a deep breath, he pulled back his left sleeve.

He watched as Borgin’s pasty face took on a whiter shade of pale, and his eyes turned comically wide in fear.

“Tell anyone,” he intoned, “and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He’s a family friend.” It felt revolting to say the werewolf’s name out loud - it tasted like bile in the back of Draco’s throat. “He’ll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you’re giving the problem your full attention.

“Now, now, there will be no need for-“

“I’ll decide that,” Draco replied airily. Casting a quick Tempus, he swore internally. “Well, I’d better be off. And don’t forget to keep that one safe, I’ll need it.”

“Perhaps you’d like to take it now?”

“No, of course I wouldn’t, you stupid little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don’t sell it.”

“Of course not…sir.” Borgin bowed low, and Draco breathed a little sigh of relief. The hardest part of today was over.

“Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, you understand?”

“Naturally, naturally,” he murmured.

With one last glance at the black glossy cabinet, Draco swept out of the shop the same way he came in, a small smile on his face at having pulled off something worthy of Lucius Malfoy himself. As he walked back towards Diagon Alley, for a moment he thought he felt something brush past his legs, and caught a split second glimpse of what seemed to be a worn shoe. Blinking, Draco looked around him. There wasn't a soul to be seen. It must have been his imagination.

Still…

Draco shook himself and resumed walking at a brisk pace. Mother was waiting, and there was only that much time he could justify being in the washroom. If someone was indeed observing him in Knockturn, he would have to be extra careful from now on. Merlin knows, he needs to stay alive for long enough to make sure Dumbledore is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! There were so many things I had to rewrite over and over so I could set the right tone for later chapters. Thank you for waiting xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco returns to Hogwarts after a summer of pain, and he begins to question everything he has ever known.

1st September 1996

***

“Harry, you’re sulking,” Hermione observed as she entered the compartment. Ron, who was currently trying to shove two chocolate frogs down his throat at the same time, made a grunting noise of agreement behind her.

“Am not,” Harry mumbled back. He didn’t want Neville and Luna - who’d been kind enough to join him in this compartment so he didn’t look like a loner - to know what’s on his mind. What he’s been trying (and failing) to convince people of. Even Mr. Weasley didn’t believe him, back on the train platform. Sure, he listened, but the parting look he gave Harry was one that contained pity more than anything else. Harry was starting to get annoyed. Everyone seemed to think that grieving about Sirius has addled his mind.

“You are, mate,” Ron replied through a mouthful of chocolate. “Sulking, I mean.” 

Hermione made a face and flicked his forehead none-too-gently. “And you, don’t talk with your mouth full! We’re sixth-years, and prefects at that. Do learn some manners.”

Ron perked up. “Speaking of prefects, Harry, did you know Malfoy’s not doing prefect duty? He’s just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed by.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Malfoy to pass up on an opportunity to display some power. As he recalled, Malfoy was the most enthusiastic member of the Inquisitorial Squad last year. Something was up. 

“And he didn’t do anything to you guys? Did he say anything?” Harry asked.

“Well, he did make a rude gesture with his hand, but that’s just about it. No bullying first years, or making his name known throughout the entire train. It’s a first for him, I’d admit,” Ron replied. 

Harry was just about to point this out as additional evidence of his theory that Malfoy was a Death Eater, but just then the door slid open again and a breathless third-year stepped inside.  

“Neville Longbottom and H-Harry Potter,” her voice faltered as she looked at Harry, eyes turned downward as she blushed furiously.

“Pro-Professor Slughorn would like to invite the two of you for lunch at compartment C,” she finished. And with one more bashful stare at Harry, she bolted out of the door again. 

“Well, look at that, Harry, it seems that you have an effect on girls after all,” Ron quipped, nudging him with an elbow. “Barring Chang, of course.”

“Do shut up, Ron.”

“Who’s Professor Slughorn?” asked Neville, looking perplexed at his own invitation. 

“Our new Defence teacher, do you think?” Hermione thought out loud. “Since Umbridge is gone now.” 

“But what does he want me for?” asked Neville nervously. “I am pretty sure I rank the last in our year for Defence.” 

“I don’t know either, but I suppose we’d better go,” Harry said, secretly tucking the Invisibility Cloak in his robes as he stood up. He might have use for it later. And if his two best friends didn’t believe him, he’d have to keep trying until they do. Harry knew, deep in his bones, that his intuition was right.  

As Harry left with Neville, Hermione turned to Ron. 

“Why did you say that?” She demanded. 

“Say what?” Ron replied, bewildered. 

“You know Harry is not rational where Malfoy is concerned. You know that he was already suspecting Malfoy of being a-a…Death Eater,” Hermione dropped her last words to a whisper, suddenly realising Luna might be listening, though she was currently preoccupied with drawing a Hippogriff on the glass window. 

“So why did you have to goad him? Isn’t it a good thing that Malfoy isn’t bullying first-years for once? Why can’t you let him be?” she exhaled noisily, her hair bouncing slightly as she shook her head in resignation. “The stupidity of boys will be the death of me, I swear to god.”

 

***

 

Draco was tired. In fact, he was nearing exhaustion in the early afternoon, and he couldn’t work up the energy to do anything, not even to acknowledge or challenge Pansy’s usual comments about the supposedly hottest guys in Hogwarts. He briefly thought to protest when she proposed Dean Thomas for the title of Hogwart’s Second-Most-Shaggable guy in the new school year. Because really, when compared to Blaise Zabini - whom they have unanimously agreed to be ranked first, always and forever - Dean Thomas was about as attractive as a potted plant. 

So who the fuck was this Slughorn guy, and why did he have to steal Blaise  _now_? Draco was having the most lovely nap leaning his head against Blaise’s strong and warm shoulders, before being rudely awakened when a blubbering third-year came to fetch him.

A part of him was slightly miffed when he realised the special invitation did not extend to him, but as with most things in his life now, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t sure if this was the result of subconscious self-preservation on his part, or if the going-ons at the Manor had desensitised him to the ability to feel. Every new muggle brought in for torture, every degrading joke at the dining table about mudbloods, every experimental dark ritual conducted with blood (oftentimes his) - bit by bit, Draco became immune to it all. 

-

As the house elves scurried to pack his trunk the day before, Draco realised that he had to do something - anything - to reconcile his self-loathing with the atrocity he’d committed months prior. It remained a horrible weakness in him, and if the sight of Potter’s hair alone could trigger panic and cause him to lose focus, he didn’t stand a chance in completing his damned mission in Dumbledore’s stronghold. With his mind made up, he’d travelled to Hogsmeade via the Knight bus and headed east till he came by the same muggle village he came to months earlier. 

Casting a simple Glamour on himself to disguise the colour of his hair and hiding his robes under a bush, Draco walked towards the nondescript chapel in the village centre. There, he located the parish and enquired innocently after the family that he helped to murder. When the priest came out to meet him, he told him he was a family friend of the child with big beautiful blue eyes and could they please direct him to their home because he wanted to surprise them after a long time spent away. The reverend took a good look at Draco, and, observing his youth, seemed reluctant to tell him what happened. _If only Aunt Bella had the same reservations_ , he’d thought bitterly to himself. 

Eventually, the priest yielded and led Draco to the parish graveyard. A family plot, clearly recent, marked the resting space of five people who died on the same day. The plot was well-maintained and well-loved, if the number of fresh flowers placed there were any indication.

“What happened to this family,” the priest told him as he sprinkled some holy water on the stones, “was surely the work of the Devil himself. I’m certain you already know this, but the Thompsons were the kindest people in our village. Always ready to share what little they had.”

He ran a hand slowly across one of the headstones. 

“And their children! They served the Lord with the purest of hearts. Ezekiel, the sweet child, used to stand at the steps of the chapel before and after every Mass to help the old folks up and down the stairs.”

“We miss them dearly,” he added. “The whole village does. Do join us in prayer that their souls will find peace with our Lord God in heaven.”

And Draco, with his throat wound tight, asked for a moment alone. The headstone was cold, stinging him as he ran his fingers gently across the name.  

“Ezekiel,” Draco said softly, then his face crumpled, and he wept. 

The tsunami of guilt he’d kept at bay washed over him again and again, dragging him under each time, making him gasp for air in the aftermath. He sobbed wordlessly in apology to the young life he’d taken in cold blood, though he knew his tears would never be enough to wash away his sin. 

By the time Draco could bring himself to leave, the sun had begun to set, painting the tiny graveyard in a warm blanket of orange. His face felt numb and puffy to the touch, and he was sure there were unflattering splotches of pink surrounding his eyes. He had to compose himself before returning. It would not do to appear weak in front of the other Death Eaters, and most importantly, in front of Mother. But there was one last thing he had to do to receive closure for himself. Looking around, he transfigured a twig into a small blue hydrangea plant, which he planted carefully beside Ezekiel’s grave. With a softly uttered spell, he charmed the flowers to bloom permanently, even in the dead of winter. Ezekiel died by magic, but Draco hoped for him to live on through it as well. He, like these blue flowers, would be the little miracle of this village.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been sitting as a draft for literal months as I lost access to my account. Hoping to update regularly from now on. Thank you so much if you have been waiting <3


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